The Sea Break (15 page)

“Dear God! “he breathed.

Time was dragging for the men huddled in the sternsheets of the fishing boat, silent but for an occasional monosyllable, straining in the darkness for anything that might come to them from the
Hagenfels
. The dark bulk of the ship lay astern of them, the anchor and deck lights and those from the portholes under the bridge illuminating parts of her dimly, so that she was a disembodied complex of lights and shadows.

Occasionally they heard hammering from the direction of the
Clan
McPhilly
, and sometimes the wind brought to them faintly the sound of voices and the laughter of men and women in the German ship.

“Seem to be enjoying themselves,” said Widmark
caustically
.

McFadden cleared his throat. “They’re no’ round to fightin’ yet, that’s for sure.”

Widmark looked at the luminous hands of his watch—2143—seven minutes to go. In a low voice he ran once more through the probable disposition of the German crew at ten o’clock—2200. “Crew totals, say, twenty,” he began. “Nine are ashore—that leaves ten or eleven. Let’s say eleven. We don’t know how many officers there are on board. Probably the lot, since Lindemann’s giving a party. That puts four of them in the Captain’s cabin. It’s pretty certain the steward’ll be there, too. That’s five of the eleven. There’ll be a night watchman somewhere on the upper deck. If he’s like a British sailor he’ll be between the gangway and the galley most of the time fixing himself cups of cha. That’s six. Five still to be accounted for. There’ll be one or two bodies in the
engine-room
watching the generators and auxiliaries—that leaves
three or four. Crew accommodation is for’ard, so they may be there or, on a hot night like this, they could be hanging about on deck. Maybe somewhere near the Captain’s cabin where they can listen to what goes on. You know what sailors are,

“Once on board we remain concentrated. We’ll make first for the fo’c’sle and deal with whoever’s there. Then we’ll make for the Captain’s cabin and join up with David and company. If trouble starts there before we arrive it’s up to them to deal with it. After that we’ll fan out and round off any odds and sods left over, like the bods in the engine-room. Got that?”

This was the plan they’d been through several times since they’d known that some of their number would start the operation in the Captain’s cabin. But Widmark knew that this last minute summary was a good thing—it helped the time to pass, it steadied nerves and freshened memories. His watch showed 2247. Almost time to begin. “Check your gear,” he said quietly. “Off raincoats. Fix your cosh-thongs on your wrists.”

There was a bustle of activity in the boat.

“All set?”

There were answering “okays.”

“Right!” he said tensely. “Stand by to weigh. Out fenders.”

Four pudding fenders were hung over the starboard side to take the rub once the boat was alongside the German ship.

At that moment, faintly but distinctly, Widmark heard the sound of a motor boat. “Shissh!” he warned. “Belay everything! There’s a boat approaching.”

They could all hear it now, the note of the engine growing stronger, coming from somewhere between the
Hagenfels
and the shore. Then it was shut out by the noise of hammering from the
Clan
McPhilly
, and Widmark wished that Captain McRobert might not for the moment be so diligent. The hammering stopped. McFadden said: “Look! The gangway.”

On the starboard side of the
Hagenfels
they saw the gangway
being lowered, and a launch came out of the darkness into the circle of light and went alongside. Three men got out of the sternsheets and went up the gangway, the launch waited for a moment then the engine roared into life and it made for the shore.

“Name of a name!” said Widmark. “What the bloody hell’s going on?”

“Liberty men returning?” suggested McFadden.

“Not likely at this time,” said Widmark.

It was 2155. Whatever this development might mean they were committed; there was no going back.

“Out paddles,” he ordered and then, after a pause, “Weigh anchor!” Mike Kent and Hans le Roux pulled on the anchor rope and the fishing boat moved slowly ahead; they lifted the anchor a few feet clear of the bottom when the rope was up and down and secured the line round a bollard. Caught by the tide the boat drifted, slowly, stern first, towards the
Hagenfels
. They manned the paddles and from time to time Widmark would order: “Paddle starboard!” “Paddle port!” or “Paddle together!” and in this way they steered the boat. It was not long before the
Hagenfels
’s bows loomed above them, black and forbidding, shafts of light from the portholes penetrating the outer darkness, clouds of insects round the wire screens. They manhandled the boat round the stem to the port side and Hans released the anchor rope, paying it out until the anchor held again; then, hitching it round a bollard, he held the boat under the flare of the
Hagenfels
’s bow, where they were hidden from anyone on deck. There they waited, their minds full of the new complication, nerves and bodies taut.

It was 2203.

Still no riveting.

Widmark ground his teeth in frustration. For Christ’s sake, he thought, what has happened in the
Clan
McPhilly
? He daren’t start warping the boat down the side until the riveting started. They waited for another four minutes—2207—then he decided there was nothing for it but to go ahead, whatever
the risk. Paying out the anchor rope, they drifted aft with the tide, down along the port side of the
Hagenfels
, McFadden and Hans holding the boat off the steel plating. It was no easy task but somehow they succeeded and a few minutes later, when Widmark judged they were opposite the after well-deck, the rope was secured and the boat rode to her anchor again, the pudding fenders taking the rub against the
Hagenfels
’s side.

Widmark prayed for the sound of riveting but nothing came. Even the hammering had stopped.

Hans le Roux climbed on to the bow of the boat and with a powerful throw sent the hook rope sailing up into the darkness on to the deck of the
Hagenfels
. In spite of the grapnel’s foam rubber sheathing there was a metallic clang as it struck the steel deck. In the boat they shuddered. Hans pulled on the hook rope until it held and then went up it hand over hand, his feet braced against the side of the ship, the scaling ladder over his shoulder. From the boat they could see nothing of him for although the rain had stopped the sky was still overcast and the boat was shrouded in darkness. Night and time seemed to pause in fearful expectation while they stood in the sternsheets waiting, their nerves jarring, faces turned upwards, trying in their minds to picture what was happening in the blackness above. There was the sound of footsteps along the steel deck and a deep voice called: “
Wer
ist
da
?
” There was no answer and the call was repeated. With chilly apprehension, they waited.

There were the fragmented, unreal sounds of a scuffle, two solid thumps, what sounded like a groan—then silence—followed seconds later by the scrabbling noise of the scaling ladder coming down the side. From the rail above came Hans’s rough whisper: “Okay—come up.”

Widmark went first, followed by McFadden. Mike Kent, the last man to leave the boat, pulled the sea-plug and, once he could hear the water gushing into the bottom of the boat, he, too, went up the ladder.

In the dim glow of the lights on the winch island they saw
Hans standing over a body which lay humped on the steel deck.

“Must have been the night watchman,” he whispered. “The grapnel made a helluva noise. Soon as I got on deck I hid behind that ventilator cowl. Then I heard this bloke coming. Walked past me calling, ‘
Wer
ist
da
?
’ so I coshed him.”

“Think he’s out for long? “Widmark spoke quickly but dispassionately, his eyes on the midship island of the
Hagenfels
, the direction from which more trouble was likely.

“For keeps, I reckon.” Hans shrugged. “First time I’ve used a cosh. I don’t know the dose. This bloke mumbled after the first one, so I gave him another for luck. His head made a nasty noise. Don’t think it did him any good.”

Hans sounded hit up and slightly hysterical.

Widmark said: “Okay, Hans. Take it easy.” He looked at his watch. “We’re way behind schedule.” It was 2211.

At that moment, like a sudden but infinitely prolonged burst of machine-gun fire, the sound of riveting came down on the wind.

Widmark grinned sardonically; from the shoulder-holster beneath his coat, tucked away under his left armpit, he drew the automatic, transferring it to his left hand, gripping the cosh in his right. The others did the same.

It was no longer necessary to whisper.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go!”

At 2150 the Port Authority launch delivered the pilot, Carlos Alberto d’Almeida, on board the
Clan
McPhilly
where she lay at anchor in the Espirito Santo and having done so left immediately for the shore. As he went up the gangway, d’Almeida cursed the wet darkness of the night and the thoughtlessness of the Clan ship’s Captain in anchoring so far upstream; with the ebb tide it meant that the ship would have to be turned as soon as the anchor was aweigh, and the river was narrow here and the anchorage crowded.

At the head of the gangway, d’Almeida was met by the
second officer who took him to the Captain’s cabin. The two men knew each other, McRobert having called at Lourenço Marques for many years. After formal greetings, inquiries about each other’s health and families, and mutual expressions of regret at the heavy losses of Allied shipping taking place on the coast, McRobert invited the pilot to sit down. A steward brought coffee and toast, putting the tray on a small table between them. D’Almeida saw from the cabin clock that it was almost ten o’clock.

“Unfortunately there is not time, Captain. We must start weighing in three minutes.”

McRobert frowned. “Did the Port Captain’s office no’ tell ye, then?”

The pilot threw out his hands in a gesture of interrogation. “Tell me what, please?”

“We’re delayed a wee bit, Pilot. We reported by voice radio to the Port Captain’s office a short time back. Windlass trouble, would ye believe it? That’s why we’ve had to let go down here. Rivets in the base plate sheered and we’ve got to put in new ones.” He cocked his head on one side, and pointed to the forward portholes.” Hear that, now?”

From the fo’c’sle came the sound of hammering.

The pilot nodded, resigned, his mouth drooping. “How long shall we be?”

McRobert poured the coffee. “Shouldn’t be too long. About an hour, I’d say. We’ll be having a report from the Chief.”

D’Almeida looked at the bulkhead clock again. If he radioed the Port Captain’s office now for a launch it would take at least fifteen minutes to reach the
Clan
McPhilly
—then he’d have to come back after thirty minutes ashore. It wasn’t worth it. With a small sigh, a click of the teeth, he accepted the inevitability of another late night.

McRobert remembered something about d’Almeida. “What would ye be saying to a wee game of chess?” He got up and took a chess board and wooden box from the bookcase.

D’Almeida’s eyes brightened and his teeth gleamed; this was something he understood. “Excellent, Captain, What’s the English saying?”

McRobert looked at him thoughtfully. Then he smiled. “‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’ The English say it’s from Shakespeare. Wouldn’t surprise me if it wasn’t Burns.” He began to whistle under his breath, up-ending the box for the pieces to fall on the chessboard. But he was thinking of other things.

While they set out the chessmen he was listening to what was going on outside; but what he was waiting for did not come. When the cabin clock showed 2203 he mumbled an apology to d’Almeida, left the cabin and hurried through the darkness to the fo’c’sle. At the top of the ladder he was met with the noise of hammering. Kneeling next to Angus Duncan he implored him: “For the Lord’s sake, Mr. Duncan, start the riveting!” Under the light cluster the Captain’s face showed agitation such as the chief engineer had never seen. The thin Scot shook his head and went on wrestling with the valve of the
oxy-acetylene
cylinder which lay next to the windlass. “This bluidy valve’s nae bluidy guid! We’ve been working on it for ten minutes.” With an impatient gesture he took the hammer from the chief officer. “John,” he said through clenched teeth, “git them bring anither cylinder from aft as quick as ye can, man!”

The chief officer slipped away and Duncan said: “We’ll have the riveting going in ten minutes, Captain.”

“Could be too late, Mr. Duncan.”

Duncan kicked the cylinder. “The damned thing. It’s Satan’s work. One in a thousand valves, maybe, will do that. Should ha’ tested it earlier.” He hammered frenziedly at the base plate making all the noise he could—but it was no
substitute
for riveting.

When the launch went alongside the
Hagenfels
and Widmark saw three men go up the gangway, he had thought of
abandoning 
the plan to concentrate on the crew’s accommodation first, and to make instead for the Captain’s cabin. But he had no means of knowing who the new arrivals were, or to what part of the ship they had gone.

Crew returning from the shore early?

Unlikely because the launch’s trip was an unscheduled one.

More guests for the party?

Scarcely at that hour.

Agents or other port authorities?

Possibly, but why?

Since Johan, Rohrbach and the Newt were already in the Captain’s cabin, it was important to deal with other parts of the ship first.

So they kept to the original plan.

Widmark led as they moved up the port side, Johan behind him, then McFadden and Mike Kent, his seasickness forgotten in the excitement of action.

Passing along the midship deck-house they hugged the
bulkhead
, ducking under lighted portholes, moving silently on rope-soled shoes, revolvers and coshes at the ready.